


something good (will come from there)

by objectlesson



Category: Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Body Hair, Body Worship, Established Relationship, F/F, Internalized Misogyny, Oral Sex, Tan lines, mentions of Taylor/Diana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 14:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21495850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Taylor does not answer, because she is too busy licking her lips and pitching forward, as if Eleanor is the sky, or the sea.
Relationships: Eleanor Calder/Taylor Swift
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	something good (will come from there)

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally a Drabble prompt and I extended it into a whole fic! I love writing about these two <3

They’re tanning on the deck of the Sunset house, which is vacant save for the whiskey and bitters Taylor keeps in the fridge for her Old Fashioneds, next to Eleanor’s top shelf vodka and Ocean Spray cranberry juice. _If we mixed them all together,_ Taylor said once, lips at the nape of Eleanor’s neck, leaving a mark like blood there, _it would taste like Christmas. Christmas is my favorite holiday. _

They’d fucked, then, on the empty, fools-gold flecked granite counter top. Taylor fingered Eleanor until she had gushed all over the floor, and when she withdrew, her fingers were puckered like they were after a long shower, or a long swim in the ocean, and Eleanor let her head fall back as the stars cleared from her vision and thought, _finally, I know why people compare love to the sky, to the sea. _

Eleanor used to feel so _lonely_, staying in these massive, empty houses, one in every city her fake boyfriend _actually_ lived with his real boyfriend. But now, she has Taylor to invite over, and its morphed from a ghost story into an endless sleep-over. They order postmates, ramen and Korean and curry, even if none of the places in LA compare to the ones in London. They put on fluffy socks and skate around the empty kitchen laughing, they chase each other through the vast sprawl of these houses yelling dirty words just to hear them echo, they drink pink wine and pour fancy bubble bath into the huge tub with jets in the master bathroom and make out until they’re too dizzy to stand.They stay up late baking and listening to unreleased Lorde demos because Taylor is the magical sort of girl people just _give_ things to, like music and rings and hearts. 

Now, the empty houses feel like they’re keeping more than _just _Eleanor’s fake boyfriend’s secrets: they feel like they’re keeping hers, as well. 

Taylor reaches across the few inches of space between their side by side pool loungers, heart-shaped glasses reflecting in the burning LA sun. The whole of the Hollywood hills glitter just beyond them, and in this moment, with Taylor Swift’s long fingers spread across the flat, warm plane of her stomach, Eleanor feels infinite. 

“Oh my god you’re getting so much tanner than I am,” Taylor murmurs, breath smelling like whiskey and orange and summer and heat. 

Eleanor exhales so her stomach rounds out, fills Taylor’s palm. “S’because I used tanning oil and you used like…50SPF sunscreen, love.” 

Taylor pouts, lips stained, but not painted red. That gets too messy for kissing, and they kiss so much out here by the pool, in the glittering blue where no one can see but the Hollywood sign, which will never tell. “I burn!” 

“I do too. I’ll probably get cancer,” Eleanor sighs, stretching, flexing her manicured toes. “But at least I look pretty.” 

“Good enough to eat,” Taylor says, hand traveling lower, until just the tips of her fingers sneak under Eleanor’s white bikini bottoms. She giggles, squirming as Taylor holds up her waistband to peek inside. She thinks she’s in for praise, something warm and purred in that whiskey-soft voice, but instead, Taylor gasps. 

“_Wow,” _she says, pushing her sunglasses up into her pool-damp hair so she can really _stare. “_That tanline! You look like a vintage Playboy centerfold, I’m drooling.” 

Eleanor shrieks, batting her hand and wriggling away, feeling ticklish and scrutinized. “Is that a compliment?!”she asks. 

“Of course it is!” Taylor assures her, getting that terribly earnest, wide-eyed baby-blue look on her fact, with the parted mouth. _This_ is why she gets called America’s Sweetheart, why people think she’s innocent, why people _hate_ her when she’s not.

Eleanor, of course, knows better. She’s lived in the valley between those crimson lips, she’s seen the real girl who resides between the headlines, the rumors, the vitriol, the adoration. She’s witnessed the sweetness, and the cruelty, because _real girls? _They’re both. “I _love_ vintage looks. So classic. Timeless. The high leg holes on those old one pieces? To die for. But mostly? The bush,” Taylor sighs, mouth getting sharp at the edges, eyes sly. “The bush is _so_ sexy.” 

Eleanor’s mouth falls open, and she feels her cheeks color. “I think mine _hardly_ qualifies as a bush,” she says defensively, peeking into her own bathing suit just to check. It’s true, she _has_ let her pubic hair grow out a bit in the last week, since she’s had some time off and hasn’t been doing anything but indulging her endless sleepover with Taylor Swift, pretending she does not have flights and silence and acts of arson in airport bathrooms to deal with in her future. Still, she waxes frequently enough the hair always grows in sparse, and she’s had it laser removed from her bikini line so the patch that _does_ grow is very neat. The word _bush_ calls to mind an unkempt forest of curls, and she takes offense to that. “It’s not a _bush _it’s like…one of those very manicured green-bits you suburban Americans love.” 

Taylor laughs like she always does when she thinks Eleanor is being especially English. Eleanor loves the sound of Taylor’s laugh, so she pretends she doesn’t know words like _lawn_ just to hear the goofy explosion of it. 

“Ok, not a _bush_ necessarily. But the hair? It looks really hot. I want to bury my face in there. Want to _lick_ your tan lines,” Taylor explains then, already kicking off her flip-flops and arranging them to the side of Eleanor’s pool lounger, so when she lowers herself to her knees upon them, the hot pavement won’t burn her. It’s like she’s an expert at eating girls out by pools or something, and the thought alone makes Eleanor shiver in dual jealousy and pride. She knows she’s not the only one of Taylor Swift’s girls, but she feels lucky to count herself among their ranks. 

“So you _like _those vintage magazines?” Eleanor says coyly, spreading her legs, allowing one to hang over the side of the lounger so Taylor is bracketed between her thighs. 

“I like pussy,” Taylor clarifies eloquently as she ties her hair up ceremoniously, batting her mascara-dark lashes. “But _yeah, _I’m into 70’s bush. Like. Your skin down there looks so fucking pale and the hair is so dark and, mmgph. Wanna take your picture.” 

“Take my picture? Is _that _all you want to do, miss Taylor Swift?” Eleanor purrs, hooking her finger into the crotch of her bathing suit and pulling it aside easily. 

Taylor does not answer, because she is too busy licking her lips and pitching forward, as if Eleanor is the sky, or the sea. 

It feels so _good_ Eleanor gasps, shuts her eyes against the sunlight and lets her head fall back, her hips lifting to meet the eager slick of Taylor’s mouth. 

Before Taylor, Eleanor _hated_ oral sex, hated the idea of it, of someone getting so _close_ to her there, where shame resides. Close enough to taste it. But then, Taylor swept into her life and everything changed. _It’s my favorite thing,_ she’d said dreamily while she licked royal icing off her fingers in the kitchen, head tilted so her off-center pony-tail swept her shoulder. _I used to think it was gross too, before I tried it. I’d let girls go down on me, and I’d let them hump my leg or hand to get off. But when I fell in love with Diana I was like, damn, I want _everything_ with this girl. So I tried it because that’s when you do when you’re obsessed with someone, you know? And _fuck. _I was missing out. I was missing out so much. It’s the best thing in the _universe, _eating a girl out. Heaven._

She’d discussed the topic with such starry-eyed passion Eleanor’s curiosity became genuine want. _Taylor_ liked it so much, and she liked Taylor, so who was she to deny her something she craved? So one night in the London house after too much wine, she’d laid back on the couch in the sunken living room, untied her robe, and looked Taylor straight in the eye. _You can do it, _she’d said, spreading her trembling thighs. _If you’d like to, I mean. _

And Taylor sighed, pressed one hundred lipstick kisses to the insides of her legs until she looked like she’d been bleeding, and then she’d spent what felt like _hours_ licking Eleanor out until she could hardly _breathe, _until she was nothing but liquid and gasps and shock and hunger. She didn't know it could be so _good_. She didn’t know _anything _could feel like that. 

Since then, it’s rapidly become one of Eleanor’s very favorite things: Taylor Swift on her knees, on her stomach, eyes closed and mouth open and tongue working in maddening circles. Gripping Eleanor's thighs, drinking her up, bathing in her like she were made from cream. 

It’s like Taylor never gets _tired_ of it, never asks for anything in return. She just sucks and licks and _moans_ like that’s _all_ she wants. Eleanor swollen and spasming against her tongue, dripping down her chin. Eleanor would feel guilty for taking so much if she didn’t trust completely that it’s _not_ taking, not really, because this is what Taylor wants _most. _Taylor Swift knows how to lie, but not about this. Not to Eleanor. 

“God,” she hisses, thighs shuddering on either side of Taylor’s head where they rest on her shoulders. “You love it so _much.” _

Taylor pulls away, mouth shining like something semi-precious. “Mmhm. I’m so happy you finally figured that out,” she murmurs before she flicks just the tip of her tongue up and down Eleanor’s cunt, just shy of her clit, which is so hard and hungry she can feel her pulse thudding in it, _wanting. _

“Please,” she murmurs, reaching down and spreading her lips, exposing herself. Only months ago that would have felt terrifying, she would have hated _touching _herself, but she _loves_ the way Taylor moans deep in her throat at the look of her manicured nails parting her own folds, _loves_ the way her pupils get dark and longing. Eleanor has spent so long feeling invisible, and Taylor doesn’t _just_ make her feel seen. She makes her feel _ beautiful. “_Come back.” 

“But I want to look at you,” Taylor murmurs, laying her cheek against Eleanor’s narrow thigh and petting her, thumbing over the short, coarse hair that’s growing in. “You’re so fucking sexy. God, look at this, look at how swollen you are,” she mumbles, using her fingers to gently pull Eleanor’s hood back, so the silvery bead of her clit is visible, sensitive. “So pretty. Could just stay here forever, licking you up.” 

Eleanor shudders, whines. “You’re teasing me.” 

Taylor opens her mouth wide in a pantomime of shock, eyes wide like she can’t _believe_ Eleanor would ever accuse her of such a thing. “I’d never,” she says then, thumbing up the length of her slit, rubbing Eleanor’s slickness over her clit messily. “You know I can’t _stand_ longer than a few seconds of staring before I get to get my mouth on it, anyway. You’re too pretty. Too delicious. _Fuck,” _she groans before dipping back in, driving her tongue right up inside Eleanor, deep and desperate. She fucks her like that for a few seconds, Eleanor whimpering and riding the sensation, clit still _throbbing_ with how badly she wants it licked, wants Taylor to do that _thing_ where she closes her lips around it and _sucks, _flooding her in fierce, nervy sensation. It’s overwhelming, but it feels _safe. _Because it’s another girl, because it’s _Taylor, _who understands what it’s like to be her. The unique brand of invisibility they share tying them together in bloodstained twine. 

“Please,” she pants, tangling her fingers in Taylor’s hair, which is still cool and damp at the roots, smelling faintly of chlorine and shampoo as she shifts it. “I need—_fuck,” _she yelps, melting into the lounger as Taylor kisses her clit, using her lips softly, aimlessly. It feels so good but it’s not _enough_ to get off on, so Eleanor’s still bucking, still chasing pressure, gasping in desperation. 

She feels Taylor actually _smile_ against her cunt, laughter sharp and muffled by wetness and heat. Then she pulls away, and Eleanor yelps. There are stars behind her eyes, a rage of static blooming like fireworks. 

“You’re so cute,” Taylor purrs, rubbing her face into the dark hair, razing painted nails over the crisp line of her tan. “So desperate.” 

Eleanor drags her in by her hair again, head lolling on the lounger. She’s never demanded anything in her _life_ before, never felt like she had a sexual appetite worth sating, let alone one worth _indulging. _But Taylor makes her _beg. _Sets her on fire, lays waste to her again and again so every former notion she had about the sort of girl she was, and the sort of hunger she did (or did _not) _possess, was shattered and replaced. Eleanor didn’t think she wanted things. Didn't think she needed sex. Didn't think she was _gay_. Didn’t think she could _come, _not even by herself, with her hitatchi. She thought she was broken, _believed_ she was cold. It was what her fake boyfriend’s fan’s said, and she heard it so many times she decided it was easier to brandish that word like a shield than let it hurt her anymore. So that's what she did, and it was so, _so_ lonely. 

But now, she gets to make fists in soft blonde hair and try to hold on, keep herself from coming in simple, ecstatic waves. Taylor makes her feel _so_ many things she thought she’d never get to feel. Touched. Wanted. _Desired. _Worth licking up, and praying to, and swallowing whole. “Taylor _god_,” she whimpers, rolling her hips as Taylor lashes her tongue, holding Eleanor down with the ease of someone who knows from experience how to withstand the throes of a storm. “M’close.” 

Sometimes, at this point, Tayor will pull off to tease her more, rubbing her middle and index finger lightly around her clit before pushing them inside to pump in and out, or else crawling up to kiss her, or to suck her nipples, or make marks in a ring around her neck so Eleanor has to wear turtlenecks in summer. Eleanor loves that she doesn't get to come until Taylor says so, that every time they fuck she’s just along for the ride, at Taylor’s mercy.

But this time, Taylor wants her _now. _She affixes her mouth and sucks, fingers digging bruise-deep into Eleanor’s newly browned thighs as she licks her with the intent of driving her over the edge, relentlessly and hungrily at the hard nub of her clit. It’s not teasing. It’s determined, and fierce, and brilliant, so much so Eleanor shuts her eyes and lets herself ride the feeling into blackness. 

It doesn’t take long. Eleanor arches her back, flings her arm across her face and sinks her teeth into her own skin to quell an embarrassing sob before it bubbles up out of her. It would not be the first time Taylor made her scream so loud it echoed, the Hollywood hills reverberating with her sobs. 

She falls back, gasping, eyes obscured with stars as Taylor loosens her grip, pulling away to lick soft and sweet and idle as Eleanor comes down from the peak of her high. “Oh,” she says. “The sun’s not out anymore.” 

It’s drifted behind a cloud, and Taylor looks up, blinking, like she was so deeply invested in drowning at the junction between Eleanor’s legs she didn’t even _notice. _“I guess not,” she mumbles, kissing the dark triangle of hair before the licks the length of Eleanor’s tanline, making her shriek. “We scared it away. Made her shy. The sun saw how good you looked and felt like she couldn’t watch us anymore, so she disappeared,” Taylor murmurs, always writing songs. Then she sits up and brushes off her knees, taking her messy pony tail down so her hair sweeps across her shoulders in blonde tumble. 

“Do you think it will rain?” Eleanor asks, blinking as she arranges herself back inside her bikini bottoms, everything feeling sensitive and swollen and wet in the best sort of way.

“Not in California,” Taylor singsongs, followed by “How about a Sarsaparilla?” 

“A what?” Eleanor says through a grin, pretending she doesn’t know what Taylor means, heart swelling in her heart like a cherry soaked in liquor. She takes her sunglasses off, blinking in the new, strange grey light. 

“Nothing,” Taylor giggles, standing before she drops down onto all fours onto Taylor’s lounger, bracketing her body between her bony knees. “It’s just a song you made me think of. A love song.” 

Eleanor sight into their kiss, so glad she is not _alone_, so glad that even as the daylight runs from them, she can still make Taylor Swift think in lyrics, in salt, and sun, and sea. 


End file.
